


And in the Darkness, Weep.

by Jarakrisafis



Series: Isana [13]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24643300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: Herald Cadash went to spring the trap in Redcliffe.
Series: Isana [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568344
Kudos: 1





	And in the Darkness, Weep.

This is how the world will end.

He crouches in the mud. The shiver that works its way up his spine is ignored. What does a little cold matter? They're going to die here.

Ironic perhaps. To die in a place that still shows marks of the Blight and yet not have that be their end. He'd curse the Maker, if he thought the Maker still existed. He's long given up his faith.

All of them have. If they even had it to begin with.

He glances back over his shoulder, eyes raking over the small band that follows him. Him. As if he knew what to do when their Herald went to spring a trap and never returned. As if he knew what he was doing when the world seemed to hold still for a moment, a heartbeat that lasted forever and for no time at all, and then crashed back into place with a jolt. Then the breach opened again.

They'd fled Haven, what else could they do? There were too many demons. He can't count how many didn't survive the trek through the snow and ice to a half fallen ruin in the middle of the Frostbacks that Solas knew about. He'd thought then, they had a chance, they could still win. The Breach continued to grow. The Inquisition grew with it, not by diplomacy, nor by alliances, but by necessity as the world slowly looked up and realised that was all that mattered. They needed the Herald. They needed the mark he bore.

Redcliffe was made to withstand the might of any army.

The Inquisition tried. Again and again.

They broke the walls on the third attempt, all the strength that remained of Ferelden, Orlais, Orzammar, many of the free city states from the Marches, anyone that still lived. They broke the walls but still couldn't get in. Demons poured like water from the breach that swirled above the castle, swarmed from the broken walls. They fought until there was nothing left but a few stragglers on a field of death beside a lake that had turned red with blood.

He ran. Stumbled from the battlefield until he found a place to stop and weep. Exhausted. Broken. They failed. In the weeks since he'd found others. The lost remnants of a last hope. 

Josephine, and how his heart ached to see the light gone from her eyes, the leather and chain on her still a shock when he wants to see her in the dresses she favoured. She hasn't smiled for a long time.

Krem, the Tevinter mercenary, the only one of his band that survived, he's curled round Josephine, his smiles are rare and only for her. He can't begrudge either of them for taking what comfort they can. What else have they got except each other?

Lantos, a dwarven friend of the Herald, the one who sent messages to the Inquisition about the Carta. Cullen has his suspicions now about Edric Cadash and his position in that organisation. Why else would the Carta turn up to Skyhold on mass and pledge themselves to fight and find him?

Vivienne, she's still the same, spine made of steel and fire in her eyes and in her hands. At least she's the same when she has eyes on her, he's seen the way her shoulders drop when she thinks nobody is looking. She stood beside him, always inspiring those that looked to them for guidance, for hope. Inside, he knows what she must be feeling, it's the same emptiness that fills his soul.

Bianca, a dwarf from Orlais that apparently knew Varric; she was how they broke the walls. She created great machines designed to hurl huge stones, big enough to tear out the stones of a castle made to withstand such things. She sits alone and stares at nothing, her hands curled together in her lap. 'What point in designing anything now,' she had said when he asked; for before her hands were never still, always sketching out some new idea.

Solas, the elven mage is quiet, sadness seems to hang in the air near him, when he is awake that is. 'It wasn't meant to end this way,' he said one night after they fought off another roving band of demons. Now he seems to spend more time sleeping, walking the Fade to try and find a different way to set the world to right. He hasn't found anything yet and he's lost too much to find any hope in one mage's abilities.

Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, he had brought news from the North. Of a great army, a cult that called themselves the Venatori. Tevinter had been overthrown, Rivain, Navaar and Seheron were under their control, the free city states in the Marches were falling one by one. He'd known then, there would be no help from the North. They were on their own.

The world trembles, a moment stretching out, a heartbeat that lasts forever and for no time at all. He rises to his feet, one hand reaching out to one of the great pillars of Ostagar, bracing himself.

This is how the world ends.

"Commander, are you alright?"

He blinks, one hand going to his temples. "Just a headache soldier, I'm fine," he waves them away. Too much worry over the Herald and what might be happening in Redcliffe no doubt. He can't shake the feeling that something will go wrong. Would they even know if something did until it is too late? He'll only be happy when they're all home again.


End file.
